


king of ashes

by neonheartbeat



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Consensual Non-Consent, Cuckolding, F/M, Femdom, Gen, Humiliation, Jotunn Loki (Marvel), Light Masochism, Light Sadism, Loki (Marvel) Does What He Wants, M/M, Minor Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, POV Peggy Carter, Painplay, Pegging, Spanking, Threesome - F/M/M, Time Travel, Vaginal Fingering, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:08:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29910519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonheartbeat/pseuds/neonheartbeat
Summary: Loki steals the Space Stone in 2012, but accidentally makes a detour to 1947 New York, where he comes face-to-face with the Director of SHIELD, Margaret Carter.________This was written for the lovely @trailingcloudsofglory who never fails to gas me up in all I do, bless her.
Relationships: Loki & Peggy Carter, Loki/Steve Rogers, Peggy Carter & Steve Rogers, Peggy Carter/Loki, Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	king of ashes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trailingcloudsofglory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trailingcloudsofglory/gifts).



NEW YORK, 1948

“Once you’re finished with that report, Agent Jones, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know. We need a new file started for the incident with the Soviets, and I think—”

“Director Carter?” panted a junior agent, barging through the door of her office with wide, nervous eyes. “Call for you. Urgent.”

Peggy Carter sighed. “It had better be level three, Winkler. I don’t appreciate being interrupted.”

“No, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am. It’s Level Eight.”

Director Carter froze in her seat as her mind raced through all the possibilities that a Level Eight incident might signify, and then she hurtled herself to the phone, yanking it off its receiver and shooing Junior Agent Winkler away. “This is Director Carter of SHIELD?”

_ “Hey, Director. It’s Colonel Stubbs. Sorry to bother you on a Friday, but, uh—we got Richter readings off the charts, and someone… I don’t know how to explain it. A man’s dropped out of nowhere in a field upstate.” _

“A man?” Peggy glanced at the map of New York on her wall. Thank heavens she hadn’t packed up yet to move to DC: there was simply too much happening in New York for that. “Where exactly?”

_ “Big empty field near the upper Hudson. Light woods. We’re sending a car for you.” _

“For—” Wild, awful hope bloomed hot in Peggy’s chest: a man had come out of nowhere and they wanted her to see him. Memories of a smile, a kiss, soft golden-brown hair and blue eyes assailed her.  _ It’s Steve. Oh, God, let it be Steve.  _ “Has the man been identified?” she forced herself to ask.

_ “No, ma’am. No identification. He’s not…we’re not sure what he is. But he’s cooperating. Seems like he’s waiting for something. Wanted to speak to the director of SHIELD, so.” _

“I’ll come at once.” Tamping down her disappointment, Peggy hung up, hurrying to the small closet in the corner of her office and changing for a long, dusty drive.

* * *

Three hours later, she was stepping out of a Jeep accompanied by a tired-looking soldier in fatigues and a cap. Her own long, wide-legged trousers were olive drab wool, and her blouse was a sensible, short-sleeved cotton thing with buttons, over which she’d belted one of her old field jackets. Having not bothered with her hair, it was a mess: half the curls had gone limp.  _ No matter, _ she thought, marching across the tall grass to the tents already erected in a wide circle around… something. 

“Director Carter,” said a gruff voice, and she turned to see Stubbs, as grizzled as ever, hands in his pockets and a cigarette dangling from his lips. “Good to see you. Maybe you can make sense of this.”

“Of what?” she asked, bewildered.

“This guy,” he said, waving a hand. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

They walked together past a line of tape, set up to stop ordinary field agents from crossing too near to the man. Peggy was beginning to think of this person as an All Capitals Sort: he was The Man, a man who’d fallen from the sky or some such, and nobody seemed to know what to tell her about him. “Where did he come from?”

“We don’t know. He just stepped out of nowhere, as far as we can make out. But he don’t come from here, that’s for sure.”

“What, from New York?”

For answer, Stubbs motioned with an arm, and she saw The Man.

He was sitting in the grass, head held evenly up and staring right at her, and Peggy Carter immediately did not care for the look he had on his face, even twenty feet off. The Man was staring at her, not at Stubbs, but at  _ her, _ as if he knew her— as if she was something he’d like to kill. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. “I’m not going near that man,” she said through numb lips.

“Gives you the heebie-jeebies, right? You and everyone else.”

“I…” She took a step, fascinated: his clothing was unlike anything she’d ever seen in her life. Green suede, lavish armor with elaborate carvings, black leather… it was like he’d stepped out of a fairy-tale book about wicked knights. He had a few bruises on his face, and a small, healing cut on his cheekbone. A strange golden thing covered his mouth, and his wrists seemed to be bound by some kind of complicated chains, or handcuffs. Peggy tilted her head to one side, and then she saw it: sitting at his feet was a blue-glowing, smoking cube. 

Her heart almost stopped. Before she knew what she was doing, she’d crossed the field and drawn her weapon, knocking the man to his back with a foot on his chest while Stubbs bellowed in alarm behind her. “Where did you  _ get that thing?” _ she snarled, grabbing the golden muzzle. As if responding to her touch, it retracted in segments, vanishing behind his ears: she could hardly focus on the marvel of  _ that, _ though. “Tell me  _ now!” _

The Man gazed up at her, something working behind his pale green-blue eyes. “Ah,” he said gently, a deceptively soft voice that didn’t seem to match his sharp, cunning face. “Finally. Someone with a working mind. You know what it is, then?” His accent was English, and this struck her as so odd that she found herself softening slightly, lessening the pressure on his chest.

“It powered half of HYDRA’s weapons during the war, and the last time it was ever seen was on— on—” She fought to not lose her composure in front of this man. “On a plane, before it disappeared— we thought into the ocean, but—how did you get it? Where’s that plane, the  _ Valkyrie?  _ Where did you find this?”

The pale eyes narrowed slightly under their heavy lids, as if he was taking this in. “The  _ Valkyrie, _ ” he said, as if to himself. “What a fascinating name. A doomed one… as they were all killed, and so, it seems, was this craft of which you speak.”

“You didn’t find this on the  _ Valkyrie,” _ said Peggy flatly, eyeing him up. “And you might speak like a Brit, but I’d bet money you’re not from London.”

He smirked. “No to both, although I  _ am _ intrigued to learn just why you are so intent on finding a lost craft, when this was, if it was indeed on it, was the only thing of value on board, Lady…?”

“It’s Director,” she said coolly. “Director Margaret Elizabeth Carter of SHIELD. You asked for me. Here I am.”

“Carter?  _ You’re _ the Director… I wanted Fury.” He swallowed, his pale throat bobbing slightly. “I wanted to tear the man’s eye out of his head… rip him limb from limb, let the vultures eat his corpse for what he did to me. Imprisoned like a common criminal… and instead I find you.” The Man’s eyes tracked her form, looking appraising. “I see why my brother takes an interest in women from Midgard. You’re a lively breed, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know who Fury is, who your brother is, or what Midgard is,” said Peggy with some difficulty at controlling her temper. “Call me a breed of anything again and I’ll knock your teeth out.”

He laughed as if she’d told a joke. “You don’t  _ know who my brother is? _ Enormous oaf, golden-haired? Hammer? The Battle of New York? Creatures unleashed from the sky, raining havoc?” When Peggy just stared at him, he blinked, looking almost affronted. “No? Not ringing a bell? How about Stark?”

It was Peggy’s turn to blink. “Howard Stark? What does Howard Stark have to do with—”

A flicker of impatience crossed The Man’s face. “Howard? No, not…” His eyes traced her again, noting her clothing, and then he sat up, nearly knocking her over— but it was only to scan the vehicles lined up past the perimeter. “Noisy,” he said, almost to himself. “Inefficient… Lady Director Margaret Elizabeth Carter, would you empty your pockets for me?”

“Empty my—” Peggy frowned, but he looked like a man about to solve a puzzle, so she dug deep: a tube of lipstick, a compact, a notepad and pencil, a crumpled bus ticket from the last time she’d worn the coat, and a nickel. “There.”

He looked over everything carefully, and seized on the nickel. “Minted in… nineteen-twenty. An indigenous inhabitant on the front, and an animal on the back… and yet the ones I saw had another man’s face on the front, with a building struck on the back. Nineteen twenty... surely this isn’t nearly a hundred years in the past?”

“A hundred— it’s nineteen forty-seven.” Peggy pulled her belongings away and put them back. “And you still haven’t answered my—”

“I obtained this item,” said The Man very frostily, “a week ago. From SHIELD. Before I used it to open the sky and let loose a war.”

Peggy snorted. “That’s not possible. I would have been informed if this thing was in our possession again, let alone if a battle had started in the middle of the biggest city in the world, so why don’t you tell me the truth?”

The Man gave her a look as if she was a very slow child. “It was not in  _ your _ possession. I obtained it in the year twenty-twelve.”

Her brain rather ground to a halt while her mind chewed on that a moment.  _ Time travel. It’s possible. It has to be.  _ There was no other explanation as to how he’d gotten his hands on the Cube while knowing nothing about the  _ Valkyrie _ . “Who  _ are _ you?” she asked, frozen.

“Whoever you like,” he told her. “You freed my mouth. Surely you’ll have pity and do the same for my hands?” He raised his wrists, jangling the heavy chains.

Peggy raised an eyebrow. “As if I’d let you free, after you admit to using this thing for murder and mayhem? I don’t think so. And by the way, this Cube wasn’t the only thing of value on the bloody  _ Valkyrie _ .”

The Man eyed her with fervent loathing. “Oh, please do pick it up barehanded. I need a reason to laugh,” he hissed, watching her look down where the grass was smoking around the Cube.

Peggy ignored him. “Stubbs!” she called, waving. “Come get a containment team. We’ve got Howard’s Cube.”

* * *

They pulled him into a tent and examined him from head to toe, keeping him in the chains but stripping him down. Peggy watched sternly from the corner, an ever-present witness, as SHIELD orderlies poked at him, prodded, took hair and tissue samples, marveled at his rate of healing, and noted down his stats before they tossed a clean shirt and pair of trousers at him and left him alone with Peggy, who read off the clipboard aloud from her camp chair while he glowered from his cot. 

_ Male, appears to be mid-thirties. Body density remarkably high, slender build, weight five hundred twenty five pounds— six foot four, hair color: black. Eye color, green. Speaks perfect English with a British accent.  _

“That’s not even beginning on your clothes,” said Peggy, setting the clipboard aside. “Another whole page of descriptions. Are you ever going to give us your name?”

He glared at her. “I could flay the skin off your bones without blinking,” he hissed. 

Peggy chuckled. “I’m sure you could. Oh, I’ve heard it all before. Mostly from Nazis we had to take in for questioning and arrest. Plenty of them thought threatening to murder me would scare me. Some even thought threatening to rape me would rattle me. Are you going to do that, too?”

The Man blinked, as if taking that into consideration. “No,” he said after a long, uncomfortable moment.

She crossed her legs. “Good. I’ve had enough of that sort of talk for a lifetime.”

“I thought your face looked familiar,” he said softly, tilting his head. “Carter. Yes. You’re his woman.”

Something chilled her blood. “What?”

“Oh, do us both the honor of being honest, Lady Margaret.” He leaned forward, the heavy chains clanking. Both pale eyes were fixed on her with an expression like glee. “You know exactly who I’m talking about. That… sickly-sweet, righteous soldier. The reluctant hero. Sickening.” He pulled a face. 

She could feel the blood draining from her face despite her best efforts to remain calm. “Captain Rogers.”

The Man snapped his fingers. “That’s the one. Quite a specimen, by Midgard standards. Packs a decent punch, doesn’t he?”

“He punched you?” asked Peggy, fighting a smile. “He’s...  _ alive _ ?”

“Not now, obviously. But where I come from. Yes. Unfortunately.”

She closed her eyes briefly. She could rejoice later. Alive. Steve was alive, somehow, would be alive. Her eyes grew damp anyway. “Good,” she whispered, hating her weak, fragile voice that cracked. 

“I could… show you him,” said The Man, eyes strangely intent on her as she looked up. “If you promised to loose me from my bonds.”

“You most certainly cannot.” Peggy shook herself. “And stop calling me Lady. I’m not royalty.”

“No? I am. Forgive me. I’m not used to having such long conversations with commoners. That’s my brother’s purview.” The Man’s lip curled slightly. 

“Oh, are you some sort of duke where you come from?” Peggy crossed her arms. 

“Prince. Or I was.” A shadow crossed his face, and somehow she thought it wasn’t for show. 

Perhaps the best thing was to keep the conversation going. “Prince of what?”

“Asgard,” he bit off sharply, as if it pained him. “And if you ask me any more idiotic questions about it, I’ll—”

“Oh, no. I’ll continue, you needn’t say a thing. Let me see. Asgard…” Peggy let the memory of all her briefing papers on Johann Schmidt pass through her mind. “Home of the gods, reached by the Bifrost bridge, which is made of rainbows, yes? At the top of the World’s Tree, Yggdrasil, the roots of which hold a serpent called Jormungandr, and the branches have got a squirrel called… Ratatosk? Prince of Asgard... You’re certainly not Thor. But.” She stood and crossed over to the clothing they’d taken off him, trailing her fingers down the burnished-gold fitting that decorated the baldric. “I see here there’s a snake worked on your baldric… and a wolf, is it? A wolf on your pauldron.”

The Man was very quiet.

She turned back to him. “And as anyone who’s done any sort of research into Norse mythology— especially someone who had to keep on her toes with a pack of fanatical Nazis looking to use ancient powers to outwit the Allies for the past four years— knows, the father of Jormungandr and of Fenrir is also someone who was shackled to restrain his powers.”

“Was he,” said The Man, a bit flatly.

“Yes. If I’m wrong, of course, just say so. But I don’t think I am, am I? Loki?”

He flinched, avoiding eye contact, which was odd. “No,” he answered. “You are not.”

Peggy put her hands on her hips. “So how exactly does one father a wolf? Or do I want to know?”

Loki sighed. “That’s an exaggeration. Things get muddled in a thousand-something year game of telephone. You humans live such…  _ short _ lives. All layered up and overlapping, on this world’s grubby little surface.”

“Nothing we can do about that,” said Peggy crisply. “So. Why are you here?”

“If you must know, it was a mistake,” he snapped. “I meant to traverse  _ space, _ not time— this sort of thing is finicky when one’s not at one’s best.”

“I hope Steve was the one who left that bruise on your head,” retorted Peggy. 

“As if he could possibly make me bleed. No.” Pale green-blue eyes bored into hers. “Rest assured I have no plans to wreak yet more chaos upon Midgard in this time. I just need the Stone— the Cube— back, so I can leave.”

“You’re certainly not doing that.” She leaned back against the table they’d set up and crossed her ankles. "You’re the first anomaly we’ve ever seen from another world. Colonel Stubbs will have you shipped off to a holding facility in New Mexico before you can blink.”

“And you agree with that,” said Loki. “You think people deserve to be caged and experimented on, simply because they’re different.”

“Of course I don’t,” she said indignantly, thinking of the way Phillips had brusquely told Steve he’d be going straight to Alamogordo since the serum had become enmeshed with his genetic code. “Innocent people don’t deserve that. But you’re not innocent. You’ve admitted to a war crime.”

A slow smile spread out across his sharp face. “Ah, yes. A crime that hasn’t happened yet. Tell me, Director, have I been convicted?”

“No,” she had to say.

“No. So I am being held against my will, which I do believe is a violation of my rights—”

“You’re not American,” said Peggy, bristling.

“Neither are you.”

She spluttered. “I’m a human being: you’re not—”

“No, I am not. In fact, I am so far above  _ human beings _ that you’re like animals to me, my kind—”

“And yet,” she said, “you’re still in chains and can’t get them off unless I help you.”

There was a brief silence, during which he gave her a look of spine-crackling hatred. “Are you  _ quite _ sure that Captain Rogers didn’t purposely crash into the ocean to get away from you?”

Peggy saw red. In a flash, she’d cross the space between them and punched him so hard in the jaw that his head snapped to the side and pain bloomed through her knuckles. “Don’t you  _ ever _ speak like that to me again!”

Loki brought his face back up, something wild and alive burning in his eyes. “Ah,” he breathed. “Careful, Lady Director Carter. You’ll break your hands upon me like waves on a rock.”

She slapped him, the crack of flesh on flesh muffled by the canvas tent, and this time he shifted uncomfortably, eyeing her through heavy lids as a flush rose to his face. “Mmm. Is that the best you can do? I had thought the Director of SHIELD would be capable of more than a smack one might give a child… but perhaps you’re simply not advanced enough to—”

Once, as a child, Peggy had gotten into a fight with a much larger boy from her brother’s school. He had seemed to tower above her, huge and looming, and after assessing the situation, she had immediately decided that she ought to aim for the most vulnerable spot. After all, a man was only as strong as his weakest point. Which was how, that afternoon, she’d won her fight: standing over a crumpled boy with both hands crushed to his groin, dry-heaving in the dusty alley while Michael, her brother, had laughed and laughed.

That was what she did now. Quick as a snake, her left foot in its heavy boot darted up and pressed into Loki’s crotch, smashing down as hard as she could. His reaction, however, was not what she’d expected— instead of screaming in pain, Loki flushed a deep shade of crimson and let his mouth fall slackly open, his head dropping back to expose his throat. “Ahhh,” he managed, in a throaty little moan that sent the hair on Peggy’s arms standing up straight. “Lady Director—”

“You  _ pervert _ ,” she spat, but it only made his throat go scarlet, too. “You’re not getting  _ off  _ on this?”

Loki seemed to be struggling with breathing, just a little. “As if you could seriously harm me. It does feel qu-quite stimulating, I’ll give you that.”

“What is the  _ matter _ with you?” she demanded, infuriated and embarrassed. Her first instinct was to slap him again, but she thought better of it and pulled away, leaving him panting softly on the edge of his cot, staring up at her with a peculiar expression. 

“Don’t be a tease. Finish what you’ve started, Lady Margaret.”

For once, Peggy Carter could find nothing to say. “As if I’d— I’d—”

Loki gave a little sigh, and the next thing she knew a line of bright, greenish light traversed his whole body from ankle to scalp— it put her in mind of a flame lighting up paper, a glowing line of fire— and where it passed over, when it vanished, Steve Rogers was sitting there, shackled and wearing Loki’s clothes, as solid and real as he had ever looked. His honey-blond hair was a little longer than she remembered, slightly mussed, his blue eyes wide and guileless. “Peggy?” he whispered.

Her heart lurched, and she took an involuntary step back towards him. “Steve— _ Steve, _ it can’t be you—” Logic must prevail,  _ reason _ must take precedence. This man could not possibly be Steve, and she knew that: he must therefore be Loki— but how was this possible? “It’s a trick. How dare you— how  _ dare _ you wear his face, sit here in front of me—” Tears pricked her eyes.

Steve— not Steve— tilted his head. “Don’t cry, Peggy. It can be me.” His voice— his voice was so clear, so obviously Steve’s voice, as if someone had reached into her memories and taken it right out. 

“Go to hell,” she whispered, fat wet drops dripping down her cheeks. “Go straight to hell, you—”

“I’ve been there already. Didn’t care for it much.” That was Loki’s voice coming out of Steve’s face now, and the wry, knowing little smile was certainly not one Rogers wore— had worn— often. “I can see you’re upset. Shall I change back?”

“No!” she blurted out, terrified all at once that she’d lose him: lose Steve again, all over again— all she had was the photo of him from his intake at Camp Lehigh. “Please. Don’t.”

“As you wish.” The voice changed back again to Steve’s, and it made her skin break into gooseflesh. “I can tell you missed me.”

Peggy didn’t care for a moment that it wasn’t really Steve at all. “Yes,” she wept, clenching her hands at her sides. “Every day. You were—” she caught herself— “ _ he was _ a wonderful friend, and a kind man, and understanding—he was like me: every door slammed in his face on his way up, he understood me.”

“Why would you be barred from your work?” asked Loki’s voice, curious.

“Because I’m a woman, you idiot. I was a codebreaker before I worked for the SSR, and I had to— do you know how many men treated me like a bloody secretary for years? When I’m twice as clever as any of them and quick on my feet?” She wiped her eyes, glad she wasn’t wearing mascara. “I suppose they don’t have that wherever you’re from.”

“No,” said Loki softly. “But we have something of a sort. May I?” He gestured at his body.

“Oh, fine,” said Peggy, and watched as Steve vanished in a curling line of green light, replaced by the lithe, long-limbed man with black hair and pale eyes—but Loki had another expression on his face: one more thoughtful.

“The things I can do… it is a craft practiced on Asgard,” he began slowly. “It is done by women. Only women. And yet, when I was… brought into the house of Odin, and grew up, my mother saw I had a proclivity for it, and taught me how to use it. My brother is lauded by all for his strength and might, and I am derided for my cunning: my abilities. My magic, if you like.”

Peggy wiped her eyes again. “And I expect your mother isn’t derided for her use of it, is she?” she asked.

  
“Not in the slightest.” Loki had a strange, hard look about his eyes. “I am seen… was seen as… effeminate. Unmanned. Only women use witchcraft to overcome a foe: men must face it head-on.”

“I suppose it’s a little of the same thing, then,” said Peggy rather thickly. “Only backwards.”

“You put me in mind of someone I knew on Asgard. The Lady Sif.” Loki’s eyes were distant. “They all said a maid could never be a warrior. And yet, she persisted, and became one of the fiercest fighters Asgard has.”

Peggy snorted. “Did she. Lovely. I expect when  _ she _ slaps you round a bit, you actually feel it.”

A wicked grin spread across Loki’s face. “Mm. But I still don’t mind it, Lady Director. Which brings us back to the conversation. Finish what you started.”

Heat rushed her body. Was he actually implying what she thought he was? “You have some nerve—”

Loki snorted. “Oh, don’t play the blushing maiden. Or do, if that’s to your liking. Shall I be your dear captain, or my own self? Don’t answer: we both know you want him. Don’t you?” A slight edge of bitterness tinged his voice.

Peggy could hardly think straight. Want Steve? Of course she wanted Steve: she wanted Steve almost more than she wanted anything else in the world.  _ I could pretend, _ she thought for an awful, daring moment.  _ Just pretend that it’s really him. It would be so easy.  _ “And what,” she made herself say, “do  _ you _ want?”

Those awful, sharply pale eyes found hers, and she could not look away. “To have  _ something _ for my own,” he said coolly. “Even for a moment. I was promised this world to rule, and I have nothing to show for it but wounds and shame. I am nothing but a ruler of ash and rubble.”

Peggy swallowed hard. Despite his ready admittance of all his crimes, there was something compelling about him, about the mad light in his eyes, the frenetic energy he exuded—she wanted to explore it deeper.  _ To have something for my own.  _ And Steve was gone— she knew she would never truly see him again. “I don’t want shadows and tricks and lies,” she said quietly. “I don’t want you to hide behind Steve’s face, or anyone’s face.”

His expression became very still. “You don’t,” he said flatly, blinking. 

“Certainly not. I like to see a man’s true face if I’m going to have him in bed.” Her cheeks flushed with the pure brazenness of it, but Loki looked stunned, then delighted, his mouth curving into a wide smile. How interesting: normally the few men who dared to ask her out tried to avoid the topic of sex at all costs, or if they didn’t avoid it, they turned scarlet to the ears and blustered their way out of it. And soldiers were even worse: the coarse remarks all through the war about Betty Grable’s backside or Rita Hayworth’s breasts when nobody thought she was listening were certainly enough to make her hair curl. Men didn’t look so stunned or happy when a woman rather brashly told them she was going to take them for a tumble in the sheets. She tried to imagine what Steve would have done if she’d propositioned him like this, and had to smile wryly at the mental image of a furiously blushing, stammering Steve Rogers. 

“You’ll have to loose my hands,” said Loki, ducking his head as if he was ashamed of his manacles. 

Peggy hesitated. “If this is a trick, I’ll—”

“It’s not,” he said quickly. “It… I was tempted before, I do admit. But I think you’ll like what I have planned.”

“It had better not be getting flayed alive,” said Peggy sternly.

“No. I swear it.”

She wasn’t having it. “Why can’t you simply stay in your bonds?”

Loki looked mortally offended. “You would have me in bed with you, without the use of my hands? Are you determined to leave my bed unsatisfied, Lady Director?”

“You know, you’re not the first man I’ve heard claim that he knew exactly what he was doing with his hands, only to find himself laughed at by the women he’d courted,” said Peggy dryly. 

Those pale eyes narrowed. “There are no men like me.”

She gnawed at her bottom lip. “All right. But if you try anything, you get a foot to the groin again.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” he said, smiling as she touched his fetters, the manacles falling away. Green light enveloped him and he moaned aloud in relief— Peggy got the distinct feeling that it was like stretching after being locked into one place for ages—before flinging his hands out. His outline blurred, shifting almost into two right before she shielded her eyes from the light. The tent’s canvas walls vanished, the grass beneath their feet smoothed out, the cot melted away, the very clothes on Peggy’s back changed— and she was standing in a warm room floored with gold. A low, wide bed piled with silks and furs was waiting in front of her, and Loki was sitting on it wearing loose, soft dark green clothing and a pleased expression. 

“What the  _ hell _ ,” said Peggy, shocked.

“You don’t like the gown? I can make you another.”

“I—gown?” Peggy looked down: she was wearing some complicated, layered thing of what felt like silk, soft and airy and hanging off her shoulders rather like a Greek chiton. It was a soft brown-green, iridescent in the light, and she lifted it, marvelling at its beauty. “What...?” Her hands, much cleaner than they had been before, made her look down at her feet: she was barefoot, and her hair was washed clean, hanging in soft waves about her face. “Did you give me a bath with magic?”

“Something like it. So you do like the gown?”

“I’ve never seen anything like this. Where are we?”

“Still on Midgard, technically. I’m very good at illusions. Right now, the soldiers outside our tent can hear only low speaking, and if they get the itch to come check inside, something quite urgent will find their attention.” He smiled. “Distractions are a useful tool, I think. Don’t you?”

“Is that why you made that double of yourself and sent him out the door in the split second before I blinked?” she asked.

Loki’s mouth dropped open in startled shock. “Oh. You  _ are _ clever, aren’t you? I see why Rogers liked you so much.”

“Bring him back.”

Annoyance crossed his face. “Lady Director, the item you took from me is highly dangerous and—”

Oh, how she wanted to spite him. “Bring him back and leave that Cube alone, or you’ll never get the satisfaction of having me.”

His left eye twitched, and after a moment the other Loki slunk in, looking shamefaced, and vanished. “Happy?”

“Absolutely not. I said no tricks or lies.”

“Lady Director—”

Peggy crossed the space between them, and it didn’t matter suddenly that hardly any of this existed, or that she was walking a thin line between loathing this man and kissing him— she pressed her knee into his crotch and shoved him down to the bed, where he fell heavily, squirming beneath her. “My name,” she said through her teeth, “is Margaret. I expect you to use it.”

“Y-yes, Lady Margaret,” he choked, cheeks suffused with blood. “I—”

She gripped him by the throat. Something about the quality of his skin, his flesh, his bone, suggested that she could grip as hard as she like— what had he said, dash herself to bits on him?—and not make a mark. So she did, and watched him go utterly pliant, staring up at her. This was touching a memory, a memory of having to attend a particularly intriguing bar in California right after the war for surveillance purposes. “Would you like me to call you worthless?”

“I might,” panted Loki.

Peggy let go of his throat. “Or do you simply like to needle and taunt and goad until the other person snaps?”

He grinned. “Now, I can’t give away all my secrets, can I, Lady Margaret?” Comically, he almost seemed to be wanting her to grip his throat again: his pale eyes darted back and forth from her hands to his body, and his chin tilted unconsciously upward. “Come, now. Give me your anger. Your fury. All of it. Bring me your hatred. I am your servant.”

Peggy couldn’t help it: something deep and long-plastered over in her breast broke loose, and the next thing she knew she was climbing on him, seizing a handful of his hair, and smashing her mouth to his. It wasn’t a kiss, couldn’t truly be called a kiss, not with how savagely she was trying to make him bleed, but Loki moaned beneath her, his hands limp on the furs, simply letting her take what she wanted. After a moment, she lifted her head. “You truly are nothing,” she managed, trying to catch her breath, and a deep, slow flush crept up his throat.

“Am I?”

“Yes. Prince of nothing. King of the dustbin. Absolutely unbearable to be around, most likely. Arrogant little—”

“And yet here you are,” he said, as if he was hardly daring to say it. A shadow crossed his drawn, high-boned face. “You’ve no idea what I’ve been through. The torments I’ve had to endure. Abuse from you, Lady Margaret, will be a balm to my soul in comparison.”

“Happy to oblige,” she said through gritted teeth, and untied his odd shirt, exposing his body: pale as salt, leanly muscled. The slightest flicker of worry darted through her— that perhaps she might after all ask him to pretend to be Steve— and then at the thought of Steve, she went crimson with shame: what would Steve think of her, bouncing in the lap of his enemy? And yet, the shame wasn’t something that made her cover Loki and run for her life— rather, it seemed to sharpen her intentions, awful heat gathering between her legs. “Ah,” she said stiffly, shocked by her own thoughts, her body’s response. 

“You’re thinking of your Captain,” said Loki quietly, but there wasn’t any mockery in his tone as he unclasped her gown at the shoulder, cool fingers running over her skin. “Imagining him standing, perhaps, just there— in the corner, and watching us. Aren’t you, Lady Margaret?”

“Please,” Peggy whispered, her face so hot she thought she might burn alive. “I don’t— it’s—”

He shook his head. “Don’t be ashamed of your thoughts. They’re only thoughts. Shall I make an imitation of him, then? Shall he watch us?”

The only sound she could make was an incoherent choking noise. Loki smiled: green light coiled off him, and there was Steve, standing a few feet to the left, looking as crisp and perfect as he had in real life, wearing khaki trousers and a buttoned-up blue shirt, tie, and belt. “Peggy,” he said, staring at her exposed shoulder. She moaned aloud, humiliated, and backed into Loki, who brought his hands up to grasp her by the upper arms. “What are you doing? Don’t you know who he  _ is? _ ”

“Steve,” she gasped, trembling. It was so much: nearly too much— her mind, shaped from nearly birth to reject all advances of men, to be innocent, to use sex as a weapon when necessary but to otherwise tamp it down, to not be loose, to be proper, to be  _ good, _ raced through all available things to say, and settled on,  _ “Help me.” _

Loki’s grip tightened slightly. “There’s no help for you now, Lady Margaret,” he said softly, which made her go entirely lightheaded, weak: how did he  _ know _ that this was precisely what she needed?  _ It isn’t me. I’ll pretend I don’t really want... I can’t be a soiled little wanton whore if I’m ravished, taken against my—  _ “You’re mine for the moment. Has the good Captain ever seen your quim?”

“N-no,” she forced out, spreading her knees before Loki even touched her gown to pull it up. 

“No? My. Aren’t you a stickler for propriety. No matter.” He flipped the layers of silk back up to her thighs, and the imitation of Steve took a breath as Loki cupped her sex, ran his deft fingers along the crease of her thigh and body, pulled her slightly open to show her off. “There. What do you think, Captain?”

It was so hard to remember that both Steve and Loki were really just Loki. Imitation-Steve’s eyes went wide, his cheeks flushed. Both fists began to tremble. “Let her go.”

Loki used his free hand to pull a lock of hair away from Peggy’s face. “No, I don’t think I will. How many fingers do you think she can take?”

Peggy let out an inarticulate, garbled noise, and buried her face in Loki’s neck as he lifted the rest of her gown away, as his finger swiped up and through the slick warmth nearly dripping down her thighs.  _ Please. Please.  _ His finger breached her, firm and clever, and she let out a tiny little breath, squirming in his lap as he pumped gently, then added another. “Good. Would you like three, Margaret?”

“Steve,” she whimpered, one hand tangled in the shirt half-hanging off Loki’s left shoulder. “Steve, help me, please…”

“Three it is,” said Loki, and worked his third finger in alongside the first two. Peggy groaned: it felt too shallow, too wide… and then he began to crook his fingers forward, curling up against the front of her insides, and she stiffened at the new sensation, shaking slightly. “Very good. Captain, be a gentleman and help the lady out of her gown.”

Steve— not really Steve, she feverishly reminded herself, not that it mattered at this point—stumbled over to them, knelt, yanked her clothes away until she was naked as the day she was born, her bare backside pressed into Loki’s suede trousers and... something else remarkably large. “You put your cock into her and I’ll make you regret it,” he said in a low, black voice that made the hair on Peggy’s neck stand up in some primal response. Just the vulgar language coming from Steve’s mouth, in Steve’s voice, was enough to make her sopping wet.

“Oh, will you,” said Loki softly. “Shall we see who’s better equipped, then?”

Peggy wriggled, pinned by an immovable hand half-lodged in her body. “If someone doesn’t finish me off soon I shall be  _ very _ put out—”

Steve unbuckled his belt, blue eyes fixed on her, and Peggy went silent, staring as he shucked his clothes off and left them on the bed. “So, is this what you want?” he asked quietly, standing in front of her nude: his body was  _ perfect,  _ every muscle in symmetry, every hair a soft golden-brown that gave him a halo-like fuzzy glow in the light. Even his cock was perfect: thick at the base, swollen and broad to the heavy, plump head, which was flushed with blood and dripping clear fluid. “Is it?”

_ I told him. No illusions. No lies. I want truth.  _ Peggy took a few breaths, trying to clear her head: this felt like a test of some kind, although certainly she’d never expected anything like this to come her way outside of an odd blue magazine. “Wait a moment,” she said desperately. “Just a moment. Loki—”

He was already moving beneath her, rolling her over as if she weighed no more than a small pet, and he was already naked, too. “There,” he said quietly, a tinge of bitterness in his voice as she looked down at him. “Take your pick. I would have you make it freely.”

Loki’s body was  _ blue. _ Peggy gaped, forgetting for a moment that Steve was behind her: he was blue with raised lines all over his body, the touch of his skin gone cold— his eyes were red, the irises and sclera tinged a bloody hue, and the cock between his legs was blue-skinned like the rest of him, albeit with a head flushed purple. She reached out and touched him there unthinkingly, on a raised line above his pubic bone, and Loki stiffened, startled. “Sorry,” she said. “That’s… fascinating.”

“My true form. Now you know. Bedding a monster.” There was a violet tinge to his cheeks that suggested a blush, and Peggy wondered if this wasn’t some desperate attempt on his part for her to abuse him verbally some more. Then he opened his mouth and removed all doubt. “Tell me. Tell me how horrible it is, how ugly I am, how terrifying—”

She lowered her mouth to his chest and bit softly at his left nipple, worrying the skin with her teeth. It wasn’t possible for her to break his skin, but he cut himself off anyway and grunted quietly, going still beneath her. “Absolutely disgusting,” she said, and watched him go slightly more placid, his cock twitching down by her thigh. “A monster made out of what, ice? You’re so cold to the touch, no one would ever have you in their bed.” Peggy bent her head again and licked his other nipple, and he let out a muffled cry: the warmth of her mouth must provide a shocking contract in temperature. She must feel like the surface of the sun. That gave her a daring idea, and she moved down the bed further, until her head was hovering over his groin. “Don’t move,” she ordered, and it did not matter for a moment that she had never done this before, or that she had no idea what she was doing: her mouth closed gingerly over the smooth, broad tip of Loki’s cock, and below her, he went rigid, a soft, disbelieving noise escaping his mouth.

Behind her, a warm, firm hand touched her head, cupping and guiding, and she hummed softly: she’d almost forgotten— but the imitation of Steve was back there, pushing her head down further with quiet words of encouragement. “Good. Like that, Peggy. You’ve got it. Yeah.” she wanted to break away, to beg someone to put something between her legs and stop the flood of aching heat threatening to break her apart, but Steve— Loki— seemed to know what she needed: his middle finger breached her, his index rubbing along the front and touching something she thought only she had known about her whole life. Peggy gulped around Loki with a stifled cry, and Steve brought her head up for air, his third finger working in alongside his middle one. “You like that, don’t you?” Her only answer was a hoarse whine.

Loki was laid out, watching with warm red eyes. “Oh, Director. Look at you. Yowling like a cat in heat. Humans are—”

She wrenched free of Steve’s arm and almost fell on Loki, pinning his throat with her forearm. “Shut up,” she gasped, her body trembling. “This is— this—”

“Unlike anything you’ve ever experienced, I’m sure,” he croaked, the pressure on his throat enough to make him flush a dark mauve. “Wait until I sheathe you on my cock, then. Or shall you yet play the innocent, unwilling maid, caught up by force?”

Embarrassment flooded her, along with an inexplicable urge to giggle. “I— that was— I—”

“Very well, the maid it is. And look! Your precious Captain can watch.” He reached down and gripped her by the backs of her thighs with stunning force. Peggy had just enough time to register how shockingly strong he was before he had pulled her back up his body and notched her at the tip, then speared her on him, gasping all the way down in short, quick breaths as if it hurt. “By the  _ Tree, _ you’re as hot as the Sun.”

He felt cold, but slick, and warmed on the way in: Peggy shivered and squeaked all the way down, until she was sitting flush against his body. He reached up and thumbed at her breasts appreciatively, and she felt immediately self-conscious. The chill of his body had shrunk and hardened her nipples. “Don’t, they look… awful.”

“They most certainly do not,” he growled, and reared himself up to press wet kisses (that felt a little as if he was trying not to bite her) to both her breasts while she squirmed and gasped on his lap. “There. Now. Shall I ravage you?”

“I think you had better,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “Heaven knows what your Steve will do if you tease me any more.”

Loki laughed. “He does as I command him.” His hips rolled and thrust, and Peggy grunted in pain with the force of it. He frowned and slowed it, and  _ that,  _ that felt much better, only dancing on the edge of too much. “I forgot how fragile you humans are. Ah.” His scarlet eyes flickered in bliss. “So very small. Tell me again. Tell me how monstrous I am.”

“Awful,” Peggy forced out, anchoring herself by his hair. “H-h—  _ oh—” _

The thrusts slowed. “I would, I would that you would use that belt of your Captain’s on me, beat me like a wayward—” He bit back the request, his jaw clenching, but his eyes were desperate. “Margaret. Please, do you understand what I—”

“Yes,” she gasped, and slapped him across the face, pretending to wrestle out of his grip and off his cock as he reached for her. “You don’t get to have me until, until you’re punished.”

“Oh, by the  _ nine—” _

She snatched up the leather belt Steve had laid aside and turned, bringing it down with all her force on Loki’s naked chest. He jerked and rolled over, stretching himself out, and she struck him across the backs of his thighs, his backside, his back: over and over until he was rutting his hips into the silk blankets, moaning. “How d’you like that, then?” she offered, dropping the belt. Her arm was aching terribly. He certainly could withstand a lot, this Loki. “Finished, or do you want more?”

Steve advanced on Loki and grabbed him by the hair, rolling him over to his back. Loki had bitten his lip, and blood stained his blue face. “Captain, my Captain,” he slurred, bright-eyed and dazed. “Get her ready for me, won’t you?”

Peggy’s heart nearly stopped as the illusion that was Steve turned to her with an open face and a soft smile on his full lips. “No,” she said firmly, and the illusion flickered and paused as if it was being cast through a bad television signal. Loki turned his head, looking at her with some surprise. “No. No illusions, no… not for me.”

“It’s a very good illusion,” said Loki, sounding vaguely offended. “I put a lot of work into his body for you.”

Peggy fought an eyeroll. “I can see that. But I don’t want my heart broken again when this is all over and done with. I won’t… I won’t be able to say goodbye again.”

Loki tilted his head and propped himself up on one arm. “How wise,” he said softly. “Hm. Have you any opposition to me taking him to bed, then? Seems a waste.”

“You, taking Steve— to— I—” Peggy was aghast at the very idea. “Steve isn’t— he wouldn’t—”

“If you mean to imply that the real Rogers would be staunchly opposed to a man in his bed, perhaps you didn’t know him as well as you think you did.” Loki’s mouth curved up in a waspish smile. “I was fortunate enough to catch a glimpse into his background through the minds of— well, never mind who, but I do wonder if the name Barnes rings a bell for you?”

“No, I know about  _ that, _ I mean Steve and  _ you, _ specifically,” said Peggy, irritated. 

Loki laughed. “Rogers and I are no stranger a pair than yourself and myself, are we? Come now, Margaret. Would you deny me the pleasure you’ve taken yourself?”

She couldn’t tell herself she  _ wasn’t _ curious to know what Steve would look like in the throes of passion with another man. “All right, then,” she whispered, and the illusion-Steve went to the bed, seemingly as if nothing had happened, before rolling Loki back over and lifting his hips up, so that his backside pressed to Steve’s very full and ready cock. “Oh.” It felt like a transgression, seeing Steve like this at all, even though it wasn’t really him, and she fought the urge to hide her eyes as Illusion-Steve gripped Loki, stroking him. 

“Now that we have you,” he said softly, in tones that were so utterly Steve Rogers that Peggy flinched, “what are we going to do with you?”

Loki turned his head and flashed a smile at Peggy. “Nothing too obscene. There’s a lady present.”

“I think you need to find something to do with that mouth.” Steve beckoned to Peggy with his free hand. “Come sit in front of him. Open your legs.”

“Oh, God Almighty,” said Peggy, scrambling for the bed. She spread her thighs apart in front of Loki’s sharp nose, and he buried his mouth in her quim, licking and suckling. He was artful and knew damn well what he was doing, though after a minute or two his rhythm seemed to be faltering. Even so, it did not take long at all for Peggy to clench her muscles, throw her head back, and pant out a soft, warm climax.  _ Finally.  _

“It did take some time for that, my apologies, I— I’ll make it up to you—” Loki was trembling slightly, and Peggy could see why as she sat up: Steve was buried to the hilt in his blue backside, a very stern expression on his face, and Loki was rapidly turning back to the pale-skinned, green eyed man she’d first seen as heat flooded him from the head down. “Ah— _ ah, _ that, that—”

“What’s that feel like?” she asked, intrigued.

“ _ Mmmph _ like, like l-lightning, like b-being, being—  _ oh— _ I—” He was almost cross-eyed, red in the face, and groaning into the bed. “Mercy, R-Rogers—”

“We don’t show mercy here to tyrants,” said Steve, and something about the way he said it nearly drove Loki over the edge: his cock was twitching and leaking as Steve pulled away and smiled sheepishly at Peggy before disappearing in a flicker of green light.

“Margaret. Please.” Loki sounded almost wild, on the verge of breaking. “There’s a, a way— here—” he waved a shaking hand, and Peggy looked down at her hips to find a fine leather harness strapped on, holding an imitation cock to her body. She wanted to laugh, but there was nothing amusing about the look on Loki’s face. “Do it. I need— I— I’ll give you anything, just  _ do it. _ ”

How hard could it be, truly? “Arse up, if you please,” she said, and positioned herself where the illusion of Steve had been a moment before, sliding into Loki’s body. He whimpered, and her body answered, warming again.  _ Really, now, I just had one!  _ “Like this?” She thrust her hips a few quick times, as if riding a horse, and Loki turned his head slightly, one hand fisted into the furs and blankets of the bed. 

“Harder. Please. Take me by the hips if you must.”

“Ah, I see.” She took his narrow hips in her hands and pulled him back on her false cock, and the sound that burst from his lips made her think for a moment she’d actually managed to hurt him— but he was unraveling, squirming, begging under her. 

“Margaret,  _ Margaret,  _ please, yes, just like that, I have to, have to—”

“You don’t deserve it,” she snapped, wishing she could bruise him. “You don’t deserve anything, nothing: I ought to keep you bound for a hundred years—”

_ “Ohh, yesss—” _

“You don’t deserve to put your cock in me, either, or to, to finish inside me. I—” A stroke of inspiration struck her. “I ought to make you lick it off the bed when you finish, making a disgusting mess, you ought to clean it up like a dog.”

He sounded like he was going to come in seconds, his voice gone desperate and tight. “ _ Margaret—” _

“Yes,” she continued, rather shocked at her own imagination, “you can writhe all over the bed in your own mess like a filthy animal in rut, can’t you, I’ll— I’ll get every last drop out of your worthless body.” Loki let out a desperate groan and jerked forward. Green light went flooding over everything, reality warping and shaking as Peggy clung to his back in surprise: he muffled his sounds in the blanket, and as she blinked and cleared her head, she saw that they were once again in the tent, on the cot, her perfectly ordinary clothing in a heap on the floor and Loki fully nude under her body, where she felt a little silly and stupid spread out over his back. There was no sign of the contraption that had been strapped to her hips. “Was that—” she began, looking down at him as he blinked his eyes open.

Loki looked perfectly obscene. His bitten lips were swollen and red, his eyes wet, and sweat gleamed on his body from brow to belly. There were no visible marks, but the palpable relief on his face and in his bearing gave her some small pride: she’d done something right. “Lady Margaret,” he croaked, and cleared his throat to try again. “Th-thank you.”

“I—” Memory of what they were doing, who she was, who and what  _ he _ was, streamed back, and Peggy felt only consternation and shame as she pulled away from him. “I ought to— dress. And, and—”

“Margaret.” There was only exhaustion and a strange tenderness in his voice as he looked at her. “I have not held up my end. Come.”

“I really, I—” How on earth was he already growing hard again? Peggy told herself it was only curiosity that brought her back to the cot, curiosity that put her back in his lap, that sank him back deep into her body. “Oh—”

“Yes. Nobody can hear you. Cry aloud.” His hands drifted, pressed, moved, lifted: she moaned as he fucked her nearly senseless, and when she came around him, his eyes rolled back in his head as she tossed her head back and howled to the canvas roof. “Oh, you  _ do  _ have a Valkyrie’s spirit.”

“Oh, God,” she sobbed, coming back down, wrung out, utterly spent, and sore. “God, God. What’s wrong with me?”

“Not a thing,” he said, cradling her in his cool arms. “Hush, now. I’ll take care of it all. Trust me. I’ll take care of it, Lady Margaret. Consider the debt I owe you paid in full.”

* * *

When Director Peggy Carter awoke several hours later, she was groggy, fully dressed, and lying on the floor of the tent that Loki had been held prisoner in: the cot had been turned over, the whole place looked torn to bits, and her hair was full of grass. (Somehow, a folded blanket had ended up under her head.) The whole camp was in an uproar: the mysterious man who had stepped out of the sky was nowhere to be seen, nor were any of his things, including the Cube, which had vanished from the truck it had been placed into for transport. 

Nobody had a single explanation, and Peggy, on the drive back to New York City, considered how perhaps, it was better, after all, that the Cube and all the trouble it seemed to constantly bring stayed out of SHIELD’s hands. 

For good.


End file.
